Hard: A Step-Brother Romance (12 page)

Why
did it hurt so much to have him mad at me?

None
of this made sense, and that was exactly the reason getting closer to Zach would
be a bad idea. We’d end it before the Disney birds started tweeting and my
heart fluttering. A crazy part of me actually
liked
his idea of a house
in the Maldives, a place where no one knew us. Just me. Him. A sunset. Solitude
and peace and absolutely no responsibility to anyone but ourselves.

Did
I deserve that slice of paradise? Did Zach deserve to wake up from a nap so I could
call him out for being a man-whore?

I
meant to set a line in the sand. Instead, we ended up bearing our souls. Then
again, I bared enough of my body to him. At least now I was seeing what made Zach,
Zach. And I almost liked it.

Almost.

“You
know.” Zach took an unsteady breath. “I
did
meet a girl at the bar. I
did
take her home. And she was the best goddamned fuck I ever had.”

“Zach—”

“And
yes, I regretted every minute I didn’t tell her who I was. I regret it more now
that she’s pissed as fuck at me and I ruined my chances with her. But Shay?” He
leaned close. “You might believe it of me, but I didn’t think you were any
particular
type
of girl.”

I
looked away. He didn’t care.

“I
didn’t judge you, even though you sure as hell assumed I was some shady player
looking to score. I thought I was the luckiest bastard in the world to spend
the night with someone so goddamned beautiful.”

I
stilled. His voice only hardened.

“I
didn’t think you were a
slut
because you found a guy to fuck,” he said,
watching me flinch at the word. “But you’re sure as hell acting like a bitch
now.”

The insult
hurt, worse than I ever imagined. Especially coming from a man whose opinion
had somehow started to matter.

He realized
it too. He turned, rubbing his head.

“Fuck,
I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Shay.”

He apologized.

He
never
apologized, not in the weeks we spent together. I shut my mouth, but he
groaned, sitting back on the couch.

“Sorry.
I’m not feeling right. I have a headache…” He pressed his lips tight. His face
had paled, but he didn’t let me speak. Was that why he stayed in the theater?
It was one of the few comfortable and dark rooms in the house. “I didn’t mean
it.”

“I
think you did.” And I think I deserved it.

“Why
did you really come to talk to me?” Zach said. “I can’t see straight. Don’t ask
me to read between the lines now.”

“It’s
nothing,” I lied. “I have some aspirin in my bathroom. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

I
cleared my throat. “That’s not an invitation to the bedroom.”

He smirked.
“Yet.”

“Keep
dreaming, loverboy.”

“Every
night, Shay. Every night.”

I
didn’t have the courage to tell him I dreamed it too.

I
ignored the rapid-fluttering that lumped my heart in my throat. I hoped I’d
choke on it before I admitted what I was feeling.

So
much for being responsible.

So
much for ending whatever it was we had.

So
much for me ignoring what happened in the pool.

I
poked the carpet with my toe. At least it was plush and cushy because when I
fell for him, I would fall hard.

And
I think I already struck the ground.

The only
time I was ever called to the principal’s office, I was thirteen, Dad had just
left us, and I thought I was edgy because I cut class.

Momma
came down to the school equipped. She beat me with a wooden spoon before we
even left the principal’s office. It cracked in half by the time we got to the
parking lot, and then she drove my ass to the store and made me buy her a
plastic one. It didn’t have the same
whack
, but I never got in trouble
again.

Except
now, apparently. And getting summoned to the principal’s office when you
work
at the school is an entirely different kind of humiliation. I wished for
the spoon. Hell, I’d have asked for the whisk.

I wasn’t
in trouble for cutting class. This time, I was getting completely, royally, and
utterly screwed.

I
waited for their judgements.

The principal
was an old Harvard elite who got lost on his way back to Connecticut and settled
in Georgia instead. He mumbled over his papers.

The
teacher I shadowed, Mrs. Bradley, was a proper southern lady who had the first
dollar her family ever earned framed on her wall—if only to show how
old
her money was. She hardly spoke to me during my brief stay in her classroom.

And,
of course, Professor Sweeten was called from the college to attend. She arrived
with her usual sparkling personality, though she finally cracked a smile through
her stone-faced scowl.

She knew
what was going to happen.

So
did I.

And
that made it so damn hard not to cry.

“Shay,”
Principal Reid said. “It’s been a trying two weeks, hasn’t it?”

No.
Not in the least. The kids were great, I handed my lesson plans in on time, and
I arrived early and stayed late every day to assist Mrs. Bradley with her decorations.
I even volunteered to help direct the first grade play—The Three Billy Goats
Gruff. I did my work, and I did it
well
.

But Mrs.
Bradley was good friends with Professor Sweeten. I realized it all too late.

“Unfortunately,
Shay…” he said. “After speaking with Mrs. Bradley, it appears we might have a
few...issues with your continued study here. This academy was designed to offer
the very best educational experience for our students—experiences many children
are not privileged to receive.”

I
swallowed. “I understand the community’s expectations.”

“Then
you understand. In order to facilitate our unique and elite environment, we can
only recruit the very best and brightest to guide these children into their
specific world. We have to be prepared to assist them with the challenges they
will face within their status. It benefits the children to have a teacher
who…encompasses their family’s social class.”

I was
used to people judging me by the color of my skin, not the color of my blood.
My father left me a billion
dollars, and I wasn’t
blue-blooded
enough for these people?

It
didn’t make sense, and Principal Reid knew it.

Professor
Sweeten arched an eyebrow. “Shay, I’m sorry to say that your student teaching
experience is counted as a pass or fail grade. I’m afraid we’ll have some very
important matters to discuss at campus.”

“Wait.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “I…can’t transfer to another classroom?”

Professor
Sweeten and Principal Reid both shared the same nauseating glance, the kind
mentally delivered with a slap to the face and swift kick to the behind.

“Shay,
I’m sorry,” he said. “Your services are no longer required at our academy.”

Don’t
cry.

I
told myself to shake his hand.

I
ordered my feet to march me out of the office with my chin high until I hid in
my car.

And
I stopped at the first gas station I passed and bought ten candy bars—one for
every day I worked at the school before Professor Sweeten destroyed my teaching
career.

I
managed one bite before the sugar coated my tongue in sticky, nougaty regret. I
could buy all the chocolate in the world—or at least a large stake in the
biggest company—but it wouldn’t make me feel better. It wouldn’t secure me a
job.

It
wouldn’t repair a dream shattered into so many fragments I nicked myself trying
to glue it back together.

Professor
Sweeten wanted to meet me at the campus. Well, she could take her syllabus and
shove it in places not recommended in the student handbook. She humiliated me
enough. I wasn’t letting her get in another strike while I still had chalk dust
under my nails.

I
pulled into the garage. The bays were mostly empty. Dad probably intended to
fill the space with more cars and never got the chance. It was just me and
Zach’s car and motorcycle.

And
I was glad to see them. Since our blowout, Zach hadn’t been such an ass. In
fact, I inadvertently called a truce during the past two weeks. I was too
exhausted from waking at six, teaching, and coming back to do lesson plans. I couldn’t
fight with him and instead accepted the apple pie he baked as an apology for
his outburst.

I
never watched anything as sexy as a six foot four Navy SEAL slicing up apples
and pounding out a crust for a homemade pie. It tasted good, and I shoveled it
in my mouth before I said something stupid. Or humiliating. Or entirely too
revealing.

I
tried to tip-toe out of the garage. No dice. He heard the door and called from
the theater.

“Playing
hookie already?”

He
loved that I was student teaching, admittedly so he could imagine me as a
school-girl. But now wasn’t the time. I didn’t know what to say.

I
got fired.

You
get a half-day when your dreams are destroyed.

Do
I have enough money to build my own academy so I never have to deal with those
douches again?

Actually,
the last idea wasn’t too bad.

I
leaned against the doorframe to the theater. Zach grinned at me. I didn’t
understand it, but his dimples reassured me. Just his presence started to
remind me of home.

It was
still weird that he did crunches and pushups while watching his favorite shows,
but I certainly didn’t mind spying on his toned muscles during the slower
episodes. He winked as he pressed against the floor.

He
constantly trained during his leave. I asked why his time off was so long.
Apparently, he had a special arrangement. I figured it had something to do with
his scars, but Zach did everything he could to avoid talking about those.

Zach
finished a set of one-armed push-ups and toweled off, pausing his show.

“Tonight,
Chef Orlando is preparing our dinner,” he said. “His
representative
says
he’s known for his Latin influences. I thought tomorrow we’d let the
Japanese-inspired chef take a turn, though I think you’re pretty set on Chef
Vito.” He winked. “I won’t be upset if you say his spaghetti was better than
mine.”

I
gave a timid shrug. “His was a bit more…professional.”

“That’s
why I’m paying him the big bucks.”

I smirked.
Zach took the initiative and braved my wrath. He hired a chef, maids, and
landscapers for the estate. I couldn’t argue. Suddenly, everything operated a
lot smoother, cleaner, and our dinners were always on time. Money made things
so much easier.

Except
when no amount of money could buy a chance to achieve your life’s ambition. If
I couldn’t buy a pallet of luck, maybe I’d send a personal assistant to appeal
to the Dean instead.

“What’s
wrong?” Zach lowered the chef’s menu. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”
I shook my head. “No. I just…I gotta…”

The
slightest curl of his finger called me to the couch. I dropped next to him. He
made a show of wrapping his arm over my shoulders and crossing his feet on the
ottoman. I didn’t care how arrogant it was. It felt nice to be held. Hugged.

I
curled against his chest and let myself mope for a long moment.

“That
bad?” He asked.

“Worse.”

“Wanna
talk about it? I’ve had my share of bad days.”

I
bit my lip. “No. I’ll take care of it.”

“Shay.
I want to help.”

Why
did I believe him? I sighed. “I lost the student teaching position.”

“
What
?”

“My advisor
and the teacher knew each other. They set it up deliberately, just to ruin me. My
advisor thinks I was buying my way through the program.”

“That’s
bullshit! Can you get a new position?”

“No.
It’s a pass/fail credit. If my advisor hates me—which she does—she can screw
me. I can’t do anything, the grades are up to her. And if the school doesn’t
want me…”

“We can
fight it.”

“I’ll
have to transfer.”

“Advisors?”

I
shook my head. “Colleges.”

“No
way.”

“Sweeten
will never pass me. I can’t get another teaching opportunity at the Academy,
and she’ll never get another assignment. I have to transfer to another college…if
my credits even count.” I pushed off the couch. Zach took my hand and pulled me
down. “I gotta go take care of this.”

“You’re
upset,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Let
this simmer for a day. Maybe there’s something we can do. We’ll find a way to
change your advisor and get you a new gig. It’s not over. Don’t worry.”

My
lip trembled. I didn’t believe him. I sucked in a breath and tried to imagine anything
else. Puppies. Good food. My favorite movie. My favorite kiss.

That
one was easy. It was every kiss I ever had with Zach.

I’d
have given anything to pretend that Zach wasn’t my step-brother, if only so I could
lose myself in his arms for just a little while.

Bad
ideas. All of it.

“What
are you thinking?” Zach asked.

Nothing
I could answer honestly. Too bad the lump in my throat was just as painful to
talk about.

“I’ve
always wanted to be a teacher,” I said. “Life goal.”

“You’ll
get there.”

“And
if I don’t? One bad professor today could be one awful administration tomorrow
and one demented school board a year from now. It wasn’t supposed to be this
way. I wanted to be there for the kids.”

“Why?”

“In
case no one else was there for them.”

His
arm tightened over me. I sighed.

“When
I was little, Momma was always yelling, and Dad was usually off with some new floozy
on the side. They were both miserable, and they took it out on each other. And
I was in the middle. Alone.”

Zach
toyed with my curls. “Yeah. I get that.”

“When
I got older, I realized instead of feeling sorry for myself, I could prevent a
child from feeling that same way. I wanted them to know they were loved. What
better way than to be a teacher?”

“You’ll
make a good one.”

“And
if it never happens?” I said.

“It
will.”

“You
never know.” I held his gaze. “What happens if everything you ever worked for
in your entire life is suddenly…gone? Completely out of your control. Nothing
you can do to prevent it?”

Now
Zach looked uncomfortable. He shifted against the couch. I pulled away.

“Sorry,”
I said. “I shouldn’t lay this all on you. I know what you’re gonna say. And
you’re right. Look at my bank account. Why should I teach when I could have a home
in the Maldives? I get it.”

His
jaw tensed. His dimples faded. “No. Some things you can’t buy with money. Look,
Shay. I don’t have an answer for you because I don’t know. You can train and spend
your life thinking things are gonna work out. And then?” He flexed. The scars
over his arms shimmered in the faint light. “It can all be over.”